


curious fools

by softouches



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, because they have a plane instead of car, but for first chapter that's it!!, can this pls become a tag already, cheeky san, does it count as road trips, kind of, lost boys in love, pilot as in he flies his own plane that's all, pilot!san, traveler!seonghwa, virgo rising seonghwa, will add more tags as it goes probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29865648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softouches/pseuds/softouches
Summary: “So, you are offering me to rent a plane,” Seonghwa says calmly, steadily. It’s weird how he thought that English would feel foreign on his tongue, but speaking Korean again for some reason feels even more foreign. Reminiscence of perfect Seonghwa. “Do I look like a millionaire?” He shakes his head, and looks at the stranger daringly. The latter just smiles softly, also taking a sip of his beer. “And even if I was, I can’t fly a fucking plane.”The man raises a hand, holding it up as if he wants to do a high five. “One,” he starts, and folds one finger demonstratively, “yes, you do look like a millionaire.” Seonghwa opens his mouth to retort, but the man is quicker, cutting him off. “Two,” he folds another finger, “I don’t know what you see when I say ‘private plane’, but it’s as far from something posh and luxurious as my looks are.”
Relationships: Choi San/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	curious fools

**Author's Note:**

> ... hi.  
> i have started writing this story back in november, and it actually had to be my first ever ateez fic but well :] the amount of headaches it gave me is actually insane, but i really wanted to put this idea out because it's quite different from what i usually write. i planned it as one shot but when i saw 9k at the end of my doc i just decided fuck it and divide it into two parts (supposedly they have to be equal but who knows)
> 
> it also has a quite neat [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2UsloqoIAK2V54KHdGcZq4?si=YTjWc-K2QN6ftPySnk--2Q) and i chose it with much care so if you're the type to read with music i highly recommend!! sorry for typos, and slight inaccuracy in geography since i haven't been in places myself and based it on a video i watched for research for this fic
> 
> have a nice read ;)

Park Seonghwa always had everything planned. And under control.

He looked at his life and saw this oddly perfect social construction: good family, prestige school, high-class university, and potentially a well-paid position at a progressive and innovative company.

The thing is, Seonghwa never wanted any of that.

Perfection was tiring, and no matter how hard he tried to keep everything in his life in order, there was this untamed desire to make a mess out of the perfect world he had built, almost as if he’s a little kid, still curious of this big, scary world.

That’s why, when Seonghwa suddenly leaves Korea, just with a backpack on his shoulders and a decent amount of savings that he had made in the span of his oh-so-perfect 24 years of life, a true chaos starts. His relatives are shocked, his parents are distressed and furious, having all of his future already planned ten years ahead. But Seonghwa feels way too intoxicated by his newly obtained freedom.

And that what matters to him the most.

Traveling the world without any backup plans or accurately built routes was kind of a challenge – one day you’re walking through an enormous metropolis, that is all about bright lights and people, and the next thing you know you’re standing in the middle of nowhere, that is an oddly looking pub on the outskirts of Switzerland.

The city he is in is small, close to tiny, even, having a name that is hard to swallow as a non-native speaker. Seonghwa is sure that everyone here knows each other, so he hides his face even more into his puffy black scarf and a beanie. Considering that most of the population here is more on the older side Seonghwa still feels like he is under someone’s gaze constantly.

He steps into a bar – rather a pub – it’s not very spacious, and has this kind of outdated look, with wooden tables and chairs scattered around, as cheaply blanched ceiling is hovering over him. There are a few people there – mostly men in their middle fifties, so Seonghwa feels kind of out of place again, goosebumps going up and down from curious pairs of eyes. He comes closer to the bar counter and the bartender greets him with a nod, as if asking what the boy wants to order.

“One beer, please,” Seonghwa croaks in English, language still kind of bitter on his tongue.

“Light, dark?” The man rasps in reply.

“Whatever,” Seonghwa mumbles, looking through the map on his phone. Two days ago he was looking through the list of unpopular places across the Europe and precisely one caught him off guard. Even on the pictures it looked so breathtakingly beautiful, that Seonghwa was unintentionally making plans in his head even though he swore that he would do everything solely spontaneously. “I’m sorry, but do you, perhaps, know how to get there?” He turns the screen so the man could see it and the latter furrows, leaning in to take a closer look.

“Boy,” he huffs, leaning back again. “First thing you need is a car. Like, a good one.” His voice feels squeaky and raspy, but it fits his mature face, as grey hairs is framing it. “But the place is on island, southeast of France, so you either need a ship, or a--,”

“Plane,” someone’s figure appears near him, plopping onto the stool. “Or a pilot.”

Seonghwa prepares to snap, not being fond of interrupting and intruders, but as he turns his head to the side he gapes.

First of all, the man – guy – is definitely not thirty which is kind of a bonding moment.

Secondly, his features have a very comforting tint of familiarity.

“Hello to you too,” the boy says in perfect Korean, and Seonghwa can’t help but feel something warm tingling inside.

Yet keeps a stoic face.

“The place you want to get,” he continues, gesturing something with a hand to the bartender, “it’s far, and separated by sea, you getting there by car would take days, and tire you out to the point where the only thing you want is to lie on the bed in your hotel room and die.”

The bartender places two beers on the counter, and Seonghwa takes the glass into hand to take a sip. The beer is nice, kind of bitter, but the taste is soothing.

“So, you are offering me to rent a plane,” Seonghwa says calmly, steadily. It’s weird how he thought that English would feel foreign on his tongue, but speaking Korean again for some reason feels even more foreign. Reminiscence of perfect Seonghwa. “Do I look like a millionaire?” He shakes his head, and looks at the stranger daringly. The latter just smiles softly, also taking a sip of his beer. “And even if I was, I can’t fly a fucking plane.”

The man raises a hand, holding it up as if he wants to do a high five. “One,” he starts, and folds one finger demonstratively, “yes, you do look like a millionaire.” Seonghwa opens his mouth to retort, but the man is quicker, cutting him off. “Two,” he folds another finger, “I don’t know what you see when I say ‘private plane’, but it’s as far from something posh and luxurious as my looks are.” Once again, Seonghwa wants to retort, because objectively, the stranger looks good, but the latter doesn’t even give him a chance to speak. “And three,” another finger is folded, “maybe, you can’t fly a fucking plane, but I, for sure, can.” He smiles, but the smile isn’t soft or gentle – Seonghwa would describe it as coy, as if the boy is up to something.

To think about that, the man’s whole look radiates something risky and adventurous – not only because of his bright hair, and colourful clothes – just something in the way he looks at Seonghwa, as if trying him, waiting for the moment he gives in.

Park Seonghwa always had everything planned. Even in that spontaneous venture that he decided to start half a year ago, he still had a tried and tested order of things, making everything go as accurately and precisely, as a clock.

But for some reason, now Park Seonghwa is ready to make a mess.

“So, what exactly is your offer?”

*

The boy – San, as Seonghwa finds out later – doesn’t explain much in the end. Just types in his contacts in the boy’s phone, and, with the same coy smile playing on his lips, leaves.

They settle on meeting nearby the same bar, and Seonghwa kind of doesn’t expect for San to turn up at the meeting place in a car. It’s small and compact – a smart, from Seonghwa’s not-that-good knowledge of cars – and surprisingly black, not really standing out.

“I though you offered me a plane?” Seonghwa doesn’t miss the chance to tease the boy as he gets into the car, placing his bag on the backseat.

San just lets out a loud snort, hands holding tightly on the wheel. “I thought you offered me a good company?”

“I didn’t offer you anything,” Seonghwa mumbles.

“Yet.”

The drive to the airfield takes them approximately half an hour, maybe forty minutes. Seonghwa is kind of bad at small talks, but San soothes awkward atmosphere by random talks, mostly comparing Korea to Europe, and telling Seonghwa some facts about his life and job. San is a translator, which means that he mostly works as a freelancer and from home, but he still manages to tell interesting and kind of entertaining stories, and for that Seonghwa is thankful.

Not like he’s not adapted to socializing – he’s traveling alone across the world, after all. But Seonghwa still considers himself as a rather reserved person, so opening up to new people always takes a fair amount of time. San, on the other hand, seems like an open book.

Key word: _seems._

“How did you even end up here?” Seonghwa asks as they are drinking coffee at one of gas stations on the way.

“Well, I noticed a pretty boy in a shitty pub in the ass of the world and then I—”

“San,” Seonghwa cuts him off, rolling his eyes.

“What?” He replies, with faux innocence on his face as he blinks. “You asked the question.”

“You know what I meant.”

When smile finally falls from San’s lips, and he visibly tenses up, Seonghwa doesn’t push. Because we all have something that we’d rather burry under the thick layers of mind and careless thoughts.

Seonghwa is way too familiar with that, unfortunately.

“How do you even fly the plane?” He decides to change topic and sees how San’s whole body relaxes immediately. “Did you, like, wake up one day wand went ‘oh, what a nice moment to take up aviation’ or?”

The smile is back onto San’s lips as he lets out a huff. “And why did you decide to get a driving license?”

“That’s different.”

“Same,” San shrugs. “Here flying and renting a plane is akin of renting a car, just like getting a license as well.”

“How long did it take you to learn?” Seonghwa furrows, trying to process the words.

“Six months.”

Seonghwa almost chokes on the coffee that he’s drinking, feeling the liquid burning his tongue. “Six months?” He almost shouts, while slightly coughing. He sees as San tries his best to contain his laughter, his whole body silently shaking. “I’m going to punch you in the throat,” Seonghwa hisses and the boy in front of his raises both of his arms in defense, trying to shift expression to a serious one. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Oh, come on,” San groans. “Where is your adventure spirit?”

“I don’t want to die?” Seonghwa’s voice cracks, and San lets out a huffed laugh. “Why the danger of losing a life is so funny to you?”

San firmly places his coffee on the table, pursing his lips. “Look, Seonghwa,” he makes a pause, thrumming his fingers against the table surface, “I don’t know who you are, and why exactly do you need it, and I won’t try to push you into anything you don’t want to do, but,” he slightly leans over the counter, a familiar mischievous glint appearing in his eyes, “what’s the point of life if there are no risks, right?”

Seonghwa stays silent for a moment, don’t giving in under San’s bold look. The life that he lived before was just like this – clean, polished, avoiding anything potentially tricky or dangerous. Seonghwa constantly felt as if he is _preserved_ , and no matter how hard he tries to break that porcelain neat image of his life, the daunting fear still hovers over him, not letting Seonghwa go.

“What’s in it for you?” He finally breaks the silence, trying to make his look as stiff as it can get. “You don’t want money, do you? So, why exactly do _you_ need it?”

“I need same thing as you,” San shrugs, not even thinking through the question. “A little bit of a mess.”

 _Mess._ Seonghwa gulps. The notion that is so unknow to him, and which, for some reason, he perceives as something menacingly beautiful.

Perfection is boring, but mess is consistent.

“Also, I don’t know what you thinking, but it is completely safe,” San adds, and the magic of the moment vanishes, as if someone pulls them back to the surface from underwater, where the time is slowed down. “I’m a good pilot, and didn’t have any accidents, I have license and know all the rules. It will be fine, Seonghwa.”

And Seonghwa believes that. Not only because San’s voice is bright, yet steady and sure at the same time, but also because there is something that draws him in. He can’t yet pinpoint if it’s San’s daring and sharp appearance, or the ambience that he eludes around him, but Seonghwa is already on the hook, and the only thing that San is left to do is to pull the rod back.

*

Surprisingly, the airfield does not look empty. It’s practically full.

There are people here and there: talking, drinking, observing the planes and jets. It’s not something that Seonghwa expected to see, frankly, rather looking for oddly deserted place, but the people bring liveliness and kind of livid energy that he likes.

“Go take a little walk, I will manage some stuff inside,” San says when they leave a car and start approaching a small building on the other side of the airfield. Seonghwa just nods at that, being to engaged in his own thoughts, barely making out what San is even saying. “What’s your favourite colour?”

“Huh?” Seonghwa’s head jerks up in confusion. “Ah, colour,” he shakes his head while looking to the ground. “Blue. I like blue.”

“Nice,” San winks at him, and at that leaves, his tiny figure disappearing rather quickly.

Seonghwa sighs, letting out a cloud of hot steam. It’s still early in the morning, and the crisp autumn wind is rather biting on his skin, so he tries to hide his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. People smile and wave at Seonghwa, as he passes by, but he knows his own smile looks rather forced, even if he tries hard to make it sincere.

Old habits.

But it’s not the people that interest him the most. Seonghwa has to hold his breath from dozens of colourful vehicles scattered around, as if he’s in a parking lot, but instead of boring and featureless cars there are these sophisticated and quaint planes, of different size, shape and look. Seonghwa has never been that interested in machinery, or engineering, at that point, but there is something magical about the freedom that a simple aircraft can give you.

“Breathtaking, is it?” San appears out of nowhere with two tanks – Seonghwa considers it is fuel in here – in his hands. “I knew you would like it.”

“I have no choice,” Seonghwa snorts, rolling his eyes. “Anyways, what is this?” He points to metal tanks, observing them curiously. “A fuel?”

“Oil,” San replies. “We can do without practically anything, but without enough oil you can consider us dead.”

Seonghwa gulps.

“I told you, it’s fine!” San whines. “I will take care of everything, just trust me?”

“You don’t look that trustable.”

“Oh, shut it.”

After around twenty minutes of gathering all their backpacks, tanks, and other suspiciously-looking things that Seonghwa doesn’t even want to question, San leads them to the hanger, and rolls out their vehicle. It’s white, decorated with wide blue stripes.

“Blue,” Seonghwa mumbles. “Is that why you asked about the colour?”

San just shrugs off the question, tracing his fingers along the glossy surface. “Robin 400,” he says dreamily, as his eyes almost sparkle at the sight. “Single-engine GA plane, can seat up to four people, but we will use it for our stuff.”

“GA?” Seonghwa repeats with uncertainty, tasting the word on his tongue.

“General Aviation,” San blatantly rolls his eyes, as if Seonghwa is a stupid kid, which feels like a light jab.

“Sorry for not understanding the basis of aviation terminology, how dumb of me,” he can’t help but snap back, but San just laughs at that, which angers Seonghwa even more. “You know, I changed my mind, you’re so annoying.”

“I am not, you’re just boring.”

“I am _prudent_ ,” Seonghwa clicks with his tongue in annoyance. “I’m making sure we don’t _die_.”

“Not even knowing the basics of aviation?”

Seonghwa sighs heavily, shutting his eyes close. Patience was never one of his strongest skills, despite first-hand impression, and fighting with a person who is basically responsible for his well-being on the trip is probably not the best idea as well. So, he cools down, takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes again.

“Let’s just deal with that and see, I’m tired,” he grumbles, as calmly as he can, and goes to the passenger seat.

“Where are you going?” San is still laughing, trying to get Seonghwa’s attention.

“To the passenger seat?” It takes all of his will not to snap again.

San comes closer, and suddenly there are pairs of hands pulling him back. “Oh, no, my friend,” he coos. “You’re my co-pilot in this trip, so go to the front.”

“Co-pilot? I don’t even know half of the words you’re saying?”

“You will adjust, I’m sure,” San whispers, and pushes Seonghwa to the door.

The insides do not seem that different from the car, Seonghwas has to admit that. Seats are covered with something reminiscent of leather, there are safety belts – two of them – and a dashboard. Though the look of the dashboard makes his head feel dizzy with the amount of controls, levers, indicators, and buttons it has on a display.

Seonghwa feels a cold sweat accumulating at the back of his neck as his breathing is getting hitched. He clenches on the backpack in his hands until his knuckles start turning white from the grasp.

“You can throw your backpack on the backseat.” San’s words sound as if they are coming from thick layer of water, completely muffled. “Seonghwa?”

At the feeling of someone’s hand on his arm Seonghwa finally snaps back, rapidly blinking through. “Yeah?” He wants to state, but it sounds rather like a question. Seonghwa doesn’t look at San, keeping his eyes on his locked hands, but physically feels the intensiveness of his gaze. “I’m fine,” he clears his throat, making sure his voice sounds bold and confident.

“You sure?” San repeats, this time much softer, almost with care.

And if not for their last bicker, Seonghwa would tell something – that he’s afraid, nervous, confused – but right now his stupid pride decides to take over, not giving San another opportunity to mock him or tease him.

“Yes,” Seonghwa nods, jerking his head up. “I’m sure.”

Yet his heart drops somewhere to his stomach, pumping loudly.

*

It’s fine during the take off. It really is. Seonghwa feels almost calm.

But then they are airborne, and Seonghwa thinks he is dying with the way his head is practically a mush. His body feels damp from the way sweat is now everywhere – on his arms, forehead, back, and chest, and his hands visibly start trembling. He is wearing earmuffs – supposedly they prevent ears from being clogged and make him hear what San is saying better – but now they seem to pressure his dizzy head even more, and he thinks he is almost fainting.

“You fucker,” he hears as San almost hisses. “I asked you if everything is fine, but no, we are so full of ourselves.”

“Shut up.” Seonghwa tries to make his words sharp, but it comes out as low meowl. “I _am_ fine.”

“Yeah, definitely,” San snorts. “Absolutely fine, it’s that you are sweating like you’ve just run a marathon.” San’s voice sounds kind of distorted, which bugs Seonghwa even more. He bumps his head onto the window, eyes wandering around the view outside, already filled with clouds and splutters of light blue. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I am _looking_. Is this allowed?”

“You will eventually look down, you idiot,” San groans. “And it will make you feel even worse.”

Seonghwa resists the advice for a few minutes, out of principle, trying to keep his eyes glued to horizon, something that he knows could help. But, eventually, his eyes get luded, almost filling with heaviness and his gaze falls down, and Seonghwa gulps, shutting his eyes closed while rising his head up from the window.

“Now what is this all about,” San asks, softer this time. His voice still sounds muffled, but at least it gives Seonghwa something to concentrate on.

“Well, you see,” he tries to collect last traces of words that are circulating in his head. “Maybe, just maybe,” Seonghwa furrows and makes a pause before continuing, “I have a light acrophobia.”

San lets out a strangled noise going right through Seonghwa’s ears, and the latter instinctively flinches. “You have what?” He asks almost in desperation, voice on the verge of cracking down. “Seonghwa, are you insane?”

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa says quietly with eyes still closed.

San lets out a heavy and rather audible sigh. “It’s a piece of information that you should have told right away? Not now.”

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa repeats, almost whining. “You just started teasing me and I--,” _don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry_ , “I thought it would be okay?”

“Idiot,” San mutters. “You’re an absolute idiot, Park Seonghwa.”

For the first time, Seonghwa, indeed, agrees with the statement.

“Talk to me,” San says after few minutes of silence, and Seonghwa titles his head to look at him. Objectively, he can acknowledge that San is rather attractive, it was obvious from their first encounter. His features are sharp, along with his moves and words, and the way he speaks, but under that Seonghwa sees a bit of gentleness and rawness – from chaotically painted nails to dozens of flashy earrings framing his ear.

These thoughts are, in fact, objective, but Seonghwa understands that there is this dangerous line that he doesn’t want to cross.

“It can help you,” San says once again when Seonghwa doesn’t reply. “Like a distraction?”

“Won’t it distract you as well?” Seonghwa asks with caution, as fear of death is still rather strong.

“Nah,” San says. “I told you it’s like driving a car, I’m good.”

“Okay,” Seonghwa nods. “How do you know we’re flying in right direction?”

“Are you for real?” San huffs a laugh. “You want to talk about those details when they just keep you concentrated on your fear.”

“They won’t,” Seonghwa says confidently. “It will make me calmer, if I find out how everything works.”

There is a pause, and Seonghwa sees how San is weighing if he should reply or not in his head, it’s almost written on his face. “It’s not that different from commercial planes,” he finally says. Seonghwa tries to keep his eyes on San, while he talks. He won’t ever admit it, but the determination in the boy’s whole presence makes him feel calmer as well. “Look at the dashboard.”

“Huh?”

“Dashboard,” San groans. Seonghwa rolls his eyes, turning his gaze to the object in front of him. He didn’t notice it before, but there is something that looks like a smartphone adjusted, displaying the reminiscence of google maps. “It’s a sat-nav system, basically that any other plane or jet has.”

“Like for cars?”

“Yes,” San nods. “You do same steps: map up the route, and just follow it. And if you were capable to look down, you would see that we’re flying almost right above the highway, which makes it really hard to get lost.”

“And the weather?” Seonghwa asks, looking how rain drops are appearing on window screen. It makes him feel light chills going down his spine again.

“As long as it’s not lightning, it’s fine,” San reassures him with a smile.

Seonghwa cautiously stares at barely visible mist of rain, almost hearing the sound of thunder before their take off ringing in his ears. “You know it’s not the best thing to say right now?”

“I’m sorry,” San huffs, “But It was you who decided to touch on this topic?”

“You could have said it in other words.”

“That is called lying.”

“It’s called reassurance,” Seonghwa deadpans, clutching on the holes in his jeans. He still feels an unpleasant tingling in his chest and in stomach, twisting all the insides, but San was right about distraction part, his mind and thoughts being much clearer.

“Did you know that your odds of dying in a car crash are 1 in 114, while your odds of dying in a plane crash are 1 in 9,821?”

“San,” Seonghwa grits through his teeth, shutting his eyes close in annoyance.

“You asked for reassurance, didn’t you?” He groans, and the sound strikes Seonghwa’s ears.

The latter just hums some nonsense under his breath, trying to chase away the images of accidents appearing in his mind. “You have an interesting way of reassuring people.”

“Do you want us to land?” San asks, not reacting to an obvious jab. “There is this small airfield, nearby Bourgogne.”

The name sounds fancy, but does not tell Seonghwa anything apart from the fact that it is in France. “Won’t it be a problem?” He asks, feeling as his cheeks get flushed.

Seonghwa considers himself a confident person, and showing his weaknesses, especially in front of a practically stranger, makes him feel embarrassed and kind of…. ashamed. That’s just how he has been raised – in fear of being perceived as weak. Only later Seonghwa realizes that it makes him even weaker.

Maybe that’s why he is constantly running away.

“We don’t need to have a set plan, Seonghwa,” San says. “We can do whatever the hell we want, you don’t have restrictions here.”

And that serves Seonghwa as a reminder that maybe, running away from himself isn’t, in fact, changing much.

The airfield where they land is called Saint Georges. Or at least it’s what written on the roof of the hangar. It’s not that different from the airfield where they took off – same looking valley, yellow grass, vehicles here and there. When they finally hit the ground, and Seonghwa practically feels it under his feet, almost crying, letting out the weirdest noise at the back of his throat.

“It’s okay,” San says in a soft tone, followed by series of giggles. They seem lightly teasing, but Seonghwa feels sincerity in his words as well. “You’ve endured it with honor, pretty boy.”

“Shut up,” Seonghwa mumbles. “Why are you talking to me like I’m a kid?”

“Four,” San says with a smile, turning off engine and opening the door to hop off.

Seonghwa follows, confused expression appearing on his face. “Four?” He echoes, following San as he moves forward.

“Yeah, four,” the boy looks down, shaking his head with a smirk. “Amount of times you told me to shut up.”

“No fucking way,” Seonghwa groans. “And I am the kid here?”

“You called yourself a kid, not me.”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t imply that—”

“Don’t you think it’s becoming pointless,” San spats out, and turns around so suddenly, that Seonghwa almost bumps into him as he stops. San is shorter – not too much, but enough for him to be considered tiny, Seonghwa having to look down on him just to make eye contact. Usual mischievousness and playfulness are gone from his face, shifting to a much more serious expression, and Seonghwa feels chills going up and down his spine from the coldness of his gaze.

“What is?” Seonghwa replies, trying to keep his voice steady as his insides are shaking.

San chuckles. “This,” he says, scraping his feet on the grass. He is still smiling, but it’s soulless, kind of scary, so to say. “Our conversations are just pointless bickers and nothing have sense.”

Twilights are slowly covering the skies above them, as sun is completely gone from the horizon. The air around gets even colder, but Seonghwa barely feels, as everything seems too much: his fear, San’s words, and a sad smile that makes his heart clench, almost in pain. “What are you even talking about,” he finally says after clearing his throat. Seonghwa wants to say more, maybe find reassuring words or phrases to lift up the mood, but his pride – his stupid pride – doesn’t let him give in that easily. “No need to make a bad guy out of me, San.”

“I don’t--,” he starts quietly, almost under his breath, and sighs. “You’re an idiot, Park Seonghwa.”

The thing about relationships while you travel is that they never last. Those are just faces, random people, that are nice enough to help you out, but deep inside both of you know that this, most likely, won’t have a continuation. It’s tempting, but at the same time rather heart-breaking, considering the fact that loneliness is a usual guest in Seonghwa’s life. And he knows that some questions have a weight – or, rather, a line, crossing which eventually leads to opening up, that eventually leads to getting attached. San doesn’t look like a person who is fond of getting attached.

Yet Seonghwa can’t help but want to figure him out.

“Two,” Seonghwa huffs, smiling down.

“Huh?” San jerks up his head, with a blank expression.

“Amount of times you called me an idiot,” Seonghwa says, coyly squinting, and with that leaves, letting his feet bring him to the nearest premises.

The sound of San’s hearty laughter is trailing behind him, and despite cold and biting weather, Seonghwa feels _warm._

*

“You good?” San asks, fuelling the jet. He is mostly back to his usual self, of teasings and sly smiles, making his appearance practically glow.

They wake up early – San predicts that the flight would be rather long, as he has already planned the next destination – and while the boy is fiddling with technical maintenance, Seonghwa tries to come into terms with his crippling fear, trying to engrave the feeling of steady ground under his feet, hoping that maybe that will keep his heart steady when they are airborne as well.

“Yeah, fine,” Seonghwa gulps, rubbing his sweaty hands together.

“Fine like the last time?” San retorts with a smirk. 

“I think I’m getting used to it,” Seonghwa mutters under his breath, mostly to himself.

San throws a rather questioning glance, but in the end just shrugs it off, continuing to fiddle with the rest of technical maintenance while Seonghwa is sitting right there, on the cold wet ground, grass already coloured with shades of yellow and orange. Seonghwa loves autumn. It reminds him of new beginnings.

But Seonghwa doesn’t even know where the start is.

As he gets into cabin, a familiar feeling creeps on him, back of Seonghwa’s neck covering with sweat again. He gulps, mostly trying to show that he is collected, but San doesn’t buy it, letting out a low snort. “Just ask me for help,” he says, turning on the engine and the rusty roar fills Seonghwa’s head and ears.

“Yeah, because last time you tried to help it did wonders,” the boy can’t hide the obvious traces of sarcasm in his tone, but San just laughs at that. And for some reason Seonghwa feels guilty. “Sorry,” he mutters, playing with holes on his jeans.

“I won’t bother you throughout a flight, okay?” San says, titling his head in Seonghwa’s direction. “I just think that your mind is way too occupied with your own fear. I had that too.” Seonghwa snaps his head in surprise, meeting San’s gaze. “Just try to perceive the skies as the road, not as a danger. A simple route that you should take in order to get to needed destination,” he says calmly, almost softly. “And I will take care of everything else.”

Words are just words for a reason. A set of meaningless phrases that create the illusion of being helpful to an individual, but there is not much behind them, usually. But, for some reason, San’s words feel more than something hollow, more than a simple act of friendliness, and it makes Seonghwa feel safe.

“Thank you.” It is the only thing that he manages to reply, eyes wandering off San’s ones in swift motion. Seonghwa’s pulse picks up, as the plane starts entering the runaway.

But this time, he is not exactly sure it’s solely from his fear of heights.

*

The mountains. San brings them to the fucking mountains.

“You know, I thought that when I told you I have acrophobia you would be a bit kinder to my state, not fucking drag me to the source of my internal fears,” Seonghwa huffs under his breath, feeling as the backpack pressures his shoulders in an unpleasant way. But at least it makes him feel grounded, instead of looking around in search of outrageously looking cliffs and steeps.

“You can’t run away from your fears forever, Seonghwa,” San says cheerfully from somewhere ahead. He leads the way, and the sight of his confident pace and joyful expression makes Seonghwa think that maybe everything is not that bad. Maybe San knows what he is doing.

Maybe.

“When you said we are landing in Avignon, I thought that I would spend the day in lavender fields while looking at pretty castles, not fighting with my fear in the middle of nowhere that is very high above the surface.”

“What’s fun in that, though?”

 _I love flowers,_ Seonghwa wants to say, but the constant pace of going up makes his chest burning under pressure, as he grasps on the air like a fish deprived of water. He feels the sweat everywhere on his body, and has a faint urge to throw all of his clothes away right there. Perhaps punch San for being pain the ass as well.

“Don’t breathe through your mouth,” San turns around to face him and walks backwards, and Seonghwa wants to scream because, hey, _what if there is one more cliff somewhere?_ “Breathing through mouth makes your endurance worse, and it makes your lungs more pained.” San still smiles, but this time it’s softer at the edges – not that teasing and coy. Kinder. “And I promise, you will see the fields. Much prettier than those cheap tourist attractions.”

“You’re so sure of yourself, I swear to god.”

“I have no other options.”

This time San waits for Seonghwa to level up with him, and tones down the pace to walk hand in hand. It’s chilly, but the sun is high above them in the skies, throwing its golden shade on the present yellowness of the tress and leaves that is already fading away. It’s pretty, objectively, and the contrasting feeling of fear under his skin makes everything more… _thrilling_. As if he is finally alive.

“It helped me,” San says after a moment of silence. “This, I mean. Mountains,” San’s voice is a bit brittle from heavy breathing, but there is a faint trace of dimple on his cheek that makes him look younger. “Ironic, isn’t it? But I was so afraid of skies, and heights, and everything connected to them that the first time I walked into an airfield and saw a plane I nearly collapsed. It was four years ago.”

“Why did you pursue it then?” Seonghwa wonders sincerely. “It’s not like it’s something essential for living, and not like you couldn’t say no to that idea as well.”

It’s quiet for a while again – the space between them being filled with sounds of feet shuffling against the surface and heavy breathing. The steeps still look scary as they walk near the edge of the road, higher and higher, but Seonghwa fully dissolves in San – his voice, instructions, and expression. It’s helpful, but scary at the same time.

Because Seonghwa likes it way too much.

“I wanted freedom,” San answers – approximately thirty minutes later. Seonghwa could physically see how the wheels were turning in his head, and how he obviously drifted some places that are far, far from here. “I have always felt like there is something holding me back, as if I am dependant on something – or someone, when in fact I am not. And I couldn’t understand why it is happening? Why I feel so restricted in everything I do?” His voice seems like fire – bright, raging, and burning. Seonghwa feels it on his skin. “I saw my fears, and tried to take them down one by one. I’ve started coming here every day, made myself look down from the highest places, they made me feel like I am really falling.”

“It’s called exposure therapy,” Seonghwa mumbles under his breath. If not for the overwhelming feeling of heights he would have probably break down right there now. “Exposing yourself to the anxiety source or its context without the intention to cause any danger.”

“Smart, aren’t we?” San chuckles, and the dimple appears on his left cheek. Disappears as fast. “You’re acquainted with it?”

Seonghwa sucks in a breath, hoping the pounding in his head and the feel of San’s fiery voice won’t indulge him into saying something that shouldn’t be said. “This whole travelling venture is one big exposure therapy,” he mumbles, words heavy and slick. “Or rather an escape from it,” he whispers in hope that it isn’t audible.

Even if San caught that, he stays silent, not really commenting on the speech. He just nods, shoots Seonghwa a quick smile, and darts somewhere ahead once again.

 _Was it too much?_ Seonghwa feels his own cheeks burning, but not from the hot sun above. He is embarrassed of his own vulnerability, and curses himself out for opening up to a stranger that easily.

But with San it’s easy. He doesn’t even have to try to pull those words out of Seonghwa, and it’s something that borders with danger.

Seonghwa is the one who is like an open book. Not San.

The fear of heights seems not that scary anymore, for some reason.

*

“Are we going to stay the night?” Seonghwa shrieks in shock as he watches San setting up the tent. He looks inside of his backpack and finds the exact same one laying at the top. With a sleeping bag. “I didn’t sign up for this. I signed up for a _pilot_.”

San looks up from the place where he was crouching, fiddling with thin fabric of the tent while pining it down. “Are you scared, pretty boy?”

“I am not scared,” Seonghwa deadpans, feeling as his cheeks flush. “And I am not _a pretty boy._ ”

“Oh, but you are,” San’s eyebrows rise and his gaze is filled with faux innocence. “A very pretty boy. Just a bit lost.”

Seonghwa furrows, deciding not to comment on the last part. He gulps, awkwardly unfolding the tent in his hands. San doesn’t offer his help, and Seonghwa is way too stubborn and prudent to ask for any type of assistance now. “You need help?” San asks – as if he is actually reading Seonghwa like a book.

“Nah,” Seonghwa throws the insides of the backpack to the ground aggressively. “It doesn’t look that hard.”

San smirks. Way too knowingly. “Whatever you say, pretty boy.”

Seonghwa wants to punch his pride in the face (if it has any) exactly ten minutes later. The sticks and bindings that were supposed to be the carcass of the tent fall out after first three attempts of fixating them, and the tent looks rather lopsided, getting carried away with every gust of wind. Seonghwa curses under his breath as he practically feels San’s teasing glances on his skin, almost hears his sonorant laugh in his ears, though it’s obviously silent.

But as much as Seonghwa hates his stubbornness, sometimes it is his most faithful companion. Forty minutes later the tent is all set up, and looks rather stable even when the blowing wind rises up the leaves in a swirl from the ground. He throws his fists into the air with victorious cheer, feeling as satisfaction fills his veins.

This time San’s laugh is rather audible in his ears. In twilights his sharp features look softer. Seonghwa would say he looks younger, kind of smaller, and more fragile.

Seonghwa is so engulfed in them that he doesn’t notice an orange-tinted glow coming from the ground. San has lit a small campfire, and now is approaching Seonghwa with something warm in his hands that smells, so to say, really tasty.

“You did well, pretty boy,” he says cheekily and sits on the log of wood near the campfire – Seonghwa could swear it wasn’t there while he was setting up a tent. “Wanna eat?” He shoots him a blinding smile, almost as bright as the stars. “I brought some instant food and it’s kinda tasty when you have been starving for half of the day.”

The food is _delicious._ Maybe, because of starving and living off crackers and nuts the whole day, maybe from pure exhaustion, maybe because of the sight of surrounding atmosphere that is breathtaking, but an instant porridge feels like the best thing that Seonghwa has ever laid in his mouth.

“Cool, isn’t it?” San asks, puffing his cheeks as he munches on the food. “How your perception of everything changes when you get there. It’s like you have never known life before.”

“Maybe I really haven’t,” Seonghwa chuckles bitterly, and stuffs his mouth with a spoonful of porridge one more time. They are far, way too far from any place that resembles city centre even slightly, and the high ground where they are is practically swallowed in mere darkness, only blisters of stars and flames from campfire reminding him that they are, indeed, not the only ones in this world.

Though, it feels like it.

“That’s why the universe wanted us to meet,” San says and Seonghwa’s chest wrenches painfully at the words. There is a playful undertone in his voice but it doesn’t make the weight of them lighter. “A lost boy and a boy who is losing the aim of his life.”

It’s the first time San says something as personal. Seonghwa freezes in his place, way too scared of ruining the fragile feel of conversation. The fire crackles softly on the background, and Seonghwa thinks the sound of it is what will forever be associated with San for him.

_Funny._

“You’re a sap,” Seonghwa says instead, in desperate hopes of switching up the mood. San laughs, shaking his head while standing up. He moves forward, and when Seonghwa still stays in his place turns around, and gestures for him to follow.

Seonghwa doesn’t feel his legs. And, maybe, heart.

They end up approaching a wide-looking cliff, the fear crawling onto Seonghwa’s skin at the sight again. But he follows, further and further, to the point where the light from the campfire is hardly seen.

“You’re not going to kill me, right?” Seonghwa asks in a shaky voice, trying to keep the gaze on the ground. The feeling of heights is still overwhelming and fierce, swiping any trace of rational thought.

“Do I look like a killer?”

“I barely know you,” Seonghwa huffs. “What if you seduce people for entertainment and then kill them off in mountains just to preserve the body parts for your personal collection.”

“Seduce?” San laughs, and even in the dark the sight of dimples is bright and livid. “Just say I’m attractive, no need to come up with elaborate theories for this.”

“Remember how I promised to punch you in the throat?”

“Remember how I called you an idiot?”

“You’re seriously annoying,” Seonghwa sighs and as soon as he sees the sight in front of him practically blanks out.

Some things in life are pretty. Like flowers, sculptures, paintings, people. Like San. But there are some things in the world that are truly breathtaking – mindblowing, because your brain can’t comprehend how the sight as beautiful can exists in our simple world. No camera can capture the beauty of it perfectly, and the only thing you can do is to try to engrave the view in your memory.

It’s not just something about the stars blistering in the skies. It’s something about the surface under them that curves in perfect imperfection, something about the colour of black – not blue – that looks like it wants to swallow you whole. No lights, no people, no sounds, just two of them.

San plops on the grass, slowly laying down on the ground and scattering his legs and arms in different directions. After few seconds, Seonghwa follows along, feeling a heat of San’s body somewhere near.

“Have you ever stargazed?”

The question seems rather funny so Seonghwa laughs. Out loud. It echoes through the emptiness of the woods and the heights, the sound of it way too surprising to Seonghwa’s ears.

“Why don’t you laugh often?” San asks after the sound gets swallowed by the darkness again. “Honestly thought you’re incapable of doing so, at some point.”

Seonghwa clenches his palms into fists, feeling the nails digging small crescents into his skin, similar to the one he sees in the sky now. Pain always grounds him, in some way. From bad decisions and uncarefully spilled thoughts. “I guess, no one really allowed me to do so,” he says when the sickness of the air gets unbearable in his lungs.

“Why did you need permission, thought?” San mutters under his breath, barely audible.

Seonghwa doesn’t know.

“My life was perfect, you know?” Seonghwa whispers. The wind blows, but the feeling is hardly felt on his heated skin. “In some ways, you could say that. I had _everything_ , but at the same time wanted none of it.”

“Sounds like a dream.” Seonghwa doesn’t see but feels the smile on San’s lips. “But perfection is tiring, isn’t it?”

“Awfully tiring.”

For a couple of hours Seonghwa’s head is clear – of thoughts, worries, or his fear of heights. It happens so rarely that the emptiness in his mind seems to enhance everything that he sees around – from peaks of mountains to stars in the skies.

San hums a low melody under his breath, either singing or talking nonsense. It’s oldy comforting and lulls Seonghwa to sleep, but he doesn’t want for this evening to end. There is something in the air that makes his chest hurt, but in an oddly satisfying way.

Freedom.

Seonghwa hasn’t tasted it fully yet, but the feeling is painfully familiar on his skin.

And the feeling of San starts getting painfully familiar as well.

“You should laugh out loud more,” he says, and Seonghwa thinks that the world around him stops. No wind, no cold, no leaves rustling – just a silent sound of stars moving along the horizon. “I like it.”

_Freedom._

*

Seonghwa doesn’t notice when everything about San just starts bringing him comfort. It takes him two full days to get used to this fact.

Or, rather, one day and a half and a couple of hours of denial.

It starts from small things and gestures – the way San’s eyes soften every time they take off the ground and he sees Seonghwa slightly panicking, being all hitched breaths and wandering eyes, the way his lips curl in a teasing yet gentle smile every time Seonghwa asks stupid questions about how aviation works, the way his voice fills with cheer as he tries to lift up the mood in the middle of the night in a small and shitty motel room they are staying at.

Seonghwa desperately thought that he wanted to make a mess of his life. To finally experience what living out of the order feels like, to get drowned into the raw excitement and ruthless freedom. And he thought that with the way San made his first impression, he would give him all of that – he seemed vivid, bright and almost ecstatic. But now the only thing Seonghwa feels while looking at him is warmth, and it creates such a drastic paradox in his head that it almost drives Seonghwa insane.

Because Seonghwa just wants to figure San out.

Gordes is a small city, and, to begin with, they don’t have a big variety of places to chose from for drinking. Like everything in Europe, the bars and pubs are compact, but with an oddly familiar atmosphere of home. They make you think like you belong there.

San chooses a nice place in the centre of the city to drink – it smells like flowers and beer. The sounds of live music fill the room, and though the audience is not that big, the cheers and claps an be heard here and there.

“A game,” San says as a waiter places their drinks on the table. “Every time I guess a fact about you, you should drink.”

Seonghwa rolls his eyes, fingers drawing quaint patterns on steamy glass in his hands. “Wasn’t a sense of coming here to drink?” He asks with a groan. “I was planning to do so in first place.”

“I told you I want to figure you out,” San shrugs, and Seonghwa shudders at that. It’s as if San sees through him, reading all of his thoughts like he is an open book. His expression is blank and naïve, but Seonghwa notices glimpses of mischievousness in the boy’s eyes. They are hard to catch, but Seonghwa knows better.

“And if you fail,” he asks, leaning in on his elbows.

San smirks, also leaning in. And for a moment Seonghwa almost physically feels as the lump in his throat makes him suffocate. “You can ask me anything,” San says, thrumming his fingers on table surface.

Seonghwa won’t admit it, but he is intrigued, heart starting to beat louder and louder. By now he has so many questions about San left without answers, that the boy’s offer evokes the tingling feeling of excitement and competitiveness inside.

“Deal,” Seonghwa shoots him a quick smile and San retorts with a smirk.

“One,” San holds up a palm and folds one finger – faint reminiscence of their first encounter. “You like order of things. A planner, not quick to take impromptu decisions,” San squints. “Perhaps, have a place where you write out a guidance for a month ahead.”

They stare at each other for a few minutes, none of them ready to lose this pointless battle. Seonghwa is stern, and stubborn, but so is San. It’s a game where you both obviously can lie, but something about the risk and a bare sense of vulnerability makes Seonghwa want to be honest.

At least with himself.

He snorts, taking a cold glass into his hands and taking a sip. A victorious smile plays on San’s lips as he rises his own drink with cheer and gulps.

“But I took your offer,” Seonghwa says after placing the glass back into place.

“Huh?”

“You said I don’t like impromptu decisions,” Seonghwa leans in, feeling as adrenaline pumps through his veins. “But here I am, with you. So maybe I love taking risks from time to time as well.”

“Did I say anything about taking risks?” San’s eyebrows rise up in a teasing way. “I just said you’re a planner and like order.”

“Cheater,” Seonghwa mumbles and hears a vast laugh overlaying the music coming from speakers.

“I just _observe_ ,” San shrugs. “You are competitive, though. Your eyes have this special gleam to them when you are determined to prove me anything,” San folds another finger. “That you are not scared, you are capable of setting a tent, capable of keeping your secrets. It’s something under the surface level, just like your will of taking risks.”

Seonghwa feels seen. Naked under San’s gaze that shoots through him like bolt of electricity, scattering everything he has thoroughly collected in himself just with one glimpse. Seonghwa always has been careful – of what picture he allows people to see, or which information is useful for him to say aloud. And he is not used to people seeing him the way he really is – real human, with messy and fucked up feelings inside.

“And I feel like you’re looking for peace,” Seonghwa says, glass in his hands untouched. Maybe, San isn’t an open book, but there is always something behind the lines that Seonghwa is able to read. “Everything about you is just brightness and boldness, but you are looking for something permanent, aren’t you? For something that will keep your life grounded.”

Smile falls from San’s lips, and the look in his eyes gets foggy as he blinks. Seonghwa sees as his other hand grips on the edge of the table, knuckles turning completely white.

Perhaps there are some fears that San wasn’t capable of taking down.

“Are we both playing this game now?” His voice is stable, but airy at the same time. As if something will break at any moment – Seonghwa just has to pick the right words to strike.

“We both have been playing it since the beginning, San.”

The music changes from fast paced to slow paced, as if someone who puts it on feels the atmosphere on their fingers. It’s sad, but happy in a nostalgic way – sounds curling around Seonghwa’s ears in a blissful melody. San still keeps his eyes on the wooden surface of the table while nibbling on his lower lip in a brittle motion. “Do you dance?”

“Sorry?” Seonghwa’s head jerks up as he blinks.

“Dance,” San chuckles. Eyes still on the surface. “Moving to the music, you know.”

“I know what dancing is, San,” Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “Why do you want to dance all of a sudden? If I made you uncomfortable, we can just drink in silence, I don’t mind.”

_But I don’t want to._

San thinks for a few seconds, playing with rings on his fingers. “I like the song,” he says as his lips curl up in much softer smile – not that bitter. “I’ve always wanted to dance to it.”

Seonghwa has never danced in his live. There were two reason – firstly, he wasn’t really close to people to the point where he would like to dance with them. He tried doing it on his own, but the second cause of the problem is that he never _allowed_ himself to dance – move to the music just like his body wanted to.

With San it feels different.

“Okay, let’s dance,” he nods, and San in front of him finally looks up. The usual smile on his lips is still there, but his eyes seem glassy. Hollow, but filled with something vulnerable at the same time. “Though I am an awful dancer, I warned you.”

“We’ll see,” San winks and gets up from his place with the sound of chair scraping through the floor.

There aren’t that many people in there, which is not really surprising. Small cities in Europe often seem very vast, mostly filled with locals or lone tourists looking for something new and fresh. Seonghwa sees an old couple swirling on the impromptu dance floor, and their loud giggles fill the premises as it accompanies the music.

Suddenly San is close. Way too close. Perhaps, the closest they’ve ever been. Seonghwa only now realizes how his eyes are not dark, but of light brown colour – like chocolate mixed with hazel. It reminds him of something sweet and bitter, just like everything about the boy. His lips are chapped, and there is a small scatter of freckles somewhere on his neck, coming into one fanciful pattern. Seonghwa faintly wonders how they would feel under his fingertips.

“Can I?” San arches an eyebrow as he raises his hands above Seonghwa’s shoulders – obviously ready to place them there. Seonghwa always forgets how the boy is shorter, and his heart wrenches at the thought of holding his smaller figure close. The only thing his body is capable of by now is to nod, feeling as the weight of San’s arms presses into his body. Seonghwa’s hands are still clenched by his sides, practically trembling from the obvious thought of what he has to do next. “You can place them on my waist,” San leans in to whisper and a soft giggle tickles his right ear. “I don’t bite.”

“Oh, shut it,” Seonghwa grumbles and feels the heat on his cheeks. His throat is suddenly dry, and his vision gets somehow blurry and unclear. “We constantly bite each other.”

“This sounds weird out of context, Park Seonghwa,” San smirks.

_Oh god._

“And he says I’m an idiot.”

They sway to the beat, a little awkwardly as Seonghwa barely holds San’s waist in his hands. Yet San grips on his shoulder tightly, as if intending on pulling himself closer and closer. His whole body tingles, and the music by that time gets nothing more than a buzzing background where Seonghwa can’t really differentiate any word just from how fast the world around is spinning.

He didn’t even drink that much.

“You grew up in a loving family, didn’t you?” San says in low voice. His eyes are wandering somewhere past him, it almost looks like he is just a reminiscence of himself by now – so pale that it can easily compare with the white ceiling above their heads. “With mother, father, perhaps siblings. Your life was boring and dull, but at the same time you always had someone, didn’t you? Someone who told you they doing that all because of _love_.” San lets out a bitter laugh – so bitter that it tingles in Seonghwa’s mouth as well. “I didn’t have anyone, Seonghwa. No parents, no siblings, no people who would ever give a fuck about me. And sometimes you just have to lie there to survive, you know? So, I did,” he chuckles. It’s scary and soulless. “And then started everything over, as if Choi San has never existed in the first place.”

“But you are here,” Seonghwa whispers, eyes never leaving San’s face. He looks older like this – with jaw clenched and gaze as piercing as cold winds of the early spring. “With me. Holding my hand,” he slowly raises their locked hands higher, threading their fingers together. San’s hands are chapped, Seonghwa feels scratchy edges of dead skin and calluses on his palms – probably from fiddling too much with plane’s engines and equipment. “Looks like Choi San to me.”

“Seonghwa.”

“What?” The song ends, but San doesn’t move away. “Wanting to break away from something bad doesn’t make you a bad human, San. Why do you think I ran away?”

“It’s different. You are a spoiled kid that ran away just to show you are capable of rebellion.” Seonghwa flinches from the way it sounds on San’s tongue, yet doesn’t feel a hurtful intention behind that.

He says that as a matter of fact.

“Freedom comes with a price, Park Seonghwa. It doesn’t allow you to have attachments in this life.”

There is an odd contrast to the sharp words coming from San’s mouth. He says them surely, without batting an eye, but one of his hands is still clinging on Seonghwa’s waist like his life depends on it, and the fingers of the other are softly caressing the back of Seonghwa’s palm, as if to soothe him.

“Freedom doesn’t come with restrictions, San. That’s the whole point of it.”

The song shifts to the mellow one again, and suddenly there is a faint weight on Seonghwa’s shoulder. He feels San smiling somewhere near the crook of his neck – soft, but sour at the same time, as if Seonghwa can actually taste it on his tongue. Skin on skin feels too much as it burns in all the places, and his breath is suddenly trapped deep down in his guts, as if they are torn from the ground again somewhere above the surface again.

“Perhaps, Park Seonghwa,” San purrs, with head comfortably nestling just above his shoulder. “Perhaps.”

Fear and hope have a lot of common, Seonghwa thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> as i said this fic gives me headaches so let me know what you think  
> chapter 2 is already outlined but since i am a working woman i can't promise anything precise tho i promise to [try] writing it asap!! kudos and comments very appreciated for motivation of course <3 
> 
> don't forget to stream fireworks mv if you have an opportunity/time ^^ 
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/_softouches)  
> perhaps [buy me coffee <3](https://buymeacoffee.com/softouches)


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